“No,” said Abbey, “but your reputation is!”
The American papers, without exception, said that Sarah Bernhardt was a magnificent actress, but that her répertoire was filled with plays which should never be shown on the American stage. “They are doubtless considered all right in immoral Paris,” said the Globe, “but they will certainly only succeed in disgusting Americans.”
And they proceeded to tear poor Adrienne Lecouvreur to pieces! A highly improper play, they said, and one which should never be given in the presence of American women. One paper seriously advised the police to descend on the theatre, close the performances, “arrest this woman, and send her back to France.”
Sarah was bewildered. She had played Adrienne in Paris, in London, in Brussels and in Copenhagen, and everywhere it had been met with tremendous applause. This was her first experience of American methods.
The fact of the matter was that only one of the critics present at the opening night knew French, and they gathered quite wrong impressions from the few words they did understand. The play, given at full length in a word for word English translation, would doubtless have been insufferably vulgar. In French, it was whimsical, delightful in its irony, and entirely free from anything objectionable whatsoever. The American critics, however, could not understand the subtlety of the lines, and they gathered their opinions solely from the action.
The manager of the theatre followed Abbey into Sarah’s bedroom. He wore a strained, a hunted look.
“You have seen the newspapers?” he asked Abbey.
“Yes!” Consternation was in the eyes of all three.
“What shall we do?” inquired Abbey, at last.
“There is only one thing to do—we must choose another répertoire! They will have us arrested soon, if this keeps up!”